


Human After All

by dolecat



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-01 16:11:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10193690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dolecat/pseuds/dolecat
Summary: The omnics won that war, and they won the world. Overwatch lives, but not for long. On their last leg, the heroes fight for the survival of the human race in a world that will soon render them obsolete. Hana Song is a survivor, and her rescue leads to her joining the ranks of the last stand. (For Humanity.)





	1. Prologue (A Rescue)

**Author's Note:**

> Overwatch lost the war (a plot I just wanted to tell when i thought of it)

**This is the girl**. She is small. She is hungry. It is the morn, and the room holds no light for her. She is alone, again.

Brown hair, supple and soft. She is bathed regularly.. Her hands shake as she curls into herself. There is nothing in the room around her. Her eyes are open but there is nothing to see. Bright, brown. Afraid.

(Hana Song)

Frail were those hands, but like a surgeon's. Cracked pink paint on her fingertips, calloused hands twitched, red and aching. She was on her side, curled up, her own skin offering the warmth that kept her sane, with no other. The cold ground chilled her side, as she was allowed no clothing to shield herself.

She whimpered.

When she was seventeen, the bad guys won. She never found out how, but those were the last days of triumph. With Baby (that creature of hot pink, newborn steel), she soared through Korean airspace, beholden to none but her own two hands and the enemy, tyrannical beast of gears and metal. Endless, nameless. Her fans adored, and she shone, brighter than the stars.

_This is my song. I am a diva. Watch me burn._

Soon, she was the only one in the sky. It was too late, too late to fall back, too late to escape.

They shot her down.

When she fell, she hit the ground. The machines killed her friends and her eyes saw the burning buildings, the defeat. Hana was comforted only by the inevitably that she would meet the same fate. Her head would be separated from her shoulders, and her tale would end. Korea melted under the omnics, and the government was mechanical within the week. The men who once lived there filled mass graves behind the city. Her parents had always been gone, but now, her new family joined them. She would join them soon, and that was solace where there was no other.

The machines were cruel and allowed her no such luxury. Her head stayed on and so did the shackles.

_Lab Rat_

Snippets of the world reached her ears, overheard conversations between metal overlords. Man had fallen, and the Omnics had taken it all.

God damn it.

White rooms, so many white rooms. She was strapped down onto the table, screaming, screaming. How many rabbits do you see? How many rabbits do you see now? Is the rabbit an object of your affection, Human? Human, why do you love this rabbit? Human, do you still like the rabbit after its skin has been removed? Human, why are you sad? Human, are you in pain? Is this pain?

Human, you are in the top percentile of humans. What is exceptional about your physical body? Human, are you of different manufacture? Human…

_Stop_

Put the specimen back in storage.

She wore nothing but her plugsuit, and when she was in storage, it went for a wash. Song was stored in a practical storage unit, three by five meters. She was allowed to take bathroom breaks, and fed a diet of pure nutrition once a day. There were no others like her, so they didn't cut her open and scoop out what they found interesting. Meatbags were a dime a dozen, but her programming was valuable.

(For Now.)

Her heroes had died, she figured. In the hours where she was blind, fumbling around in the dark, she wondered about what had happened to them. Were they in storage as well? Were they buried in mass graves, stacked with the same citizen folk they protected for their last moments? What of Overwatch?

Nothing.

The hours she spent, solitary, became her time for dreaming.

And what dreams she had!

She imagined telling another human being about those dreams. There was no one to tell, so she told herself. She told Baby.

"Baby, do you ever wonder what it would have been like if we had won the war? And put these things in the garbage? Where did Morrison go? I miss my bed." Her voice cracked.

"Baby, I wonder what they did with you. I hope you're in one piece." (She caressed the neon carapace, glimmering pink in the morning sun. She perched in the cockpit, her gloved hand slipping around the joystick, the sweat from her palms condensed onto the tough rubber. She breathed. She placed her boots on the pedals, and drank in the heat of the engine, the roar of the beast within, tearing through her soul, a duet of woman and beast.)

Baby probably had been dismantled and the pieces used to construct more omnics. The pink metal headpiece, a head. The gun, grafted onto a bastion unit, mowing down schoolchildren.

It was the hours, endless hours, that stole her soul. The robots could go to hell but her own body was breaking, minute by minute. Her hands twitched, her knuckles were white. When was her next meal? Too far, too far.

Clang.

Her eyes widened, but she closed them again. She had been unable to sleep. She couldn't go back to the room like this. One more hour, please..

Clang.

Muffled speaking.

"-s there anyone out there.."

And then, there was light.

* * *

**Red line**. Inert, his visor. Face mask, pale forehead, white hair. The orange light cast his shadow across her, enveloping. His hands clutched a gun, larger than her arm, glowing, shedding blue onto the black room. Armored, jacketed, blue and white.

Human.

In her fever she does not question it before her, but lies, stone.

"My god.." It's slate, the voice, hard and strong. Footsteps near, and she curls in on herself.

"Angela, I've found the pilot."

She feels arms, human arms, clutch her around the back. And then she is lifted, pulled close, fetal position, bare skin against the synthetic jacket. Her eyes drifted open, and she shifted her unfocused gaze over her would-be rescuer.

"I'm gonna get you out of here."

"Who are you..?" Hana whispers.

"I.." Pause. "I'm just a soldier doing my job."

And he walked, bobbing her up and down, holding her close to his chest as he shifted into a run. Bright orange light, bright white light, mechanical clicking. Bleary as she was, she didn't see the broken machines, pocked with bullet marks, pieces embedded in walls, torn and dead.

Corridors of the dead shells, windows of square sunlight. Orange, accented with yellow, early day. 76 didn't want the mission to last long enough for daylight, but there was nothing to be done. Korea was a _nightmare_ to dismantle. His comms were going crazy, and every man, woman, and omnic in the country was soon to be aware of the new status of their beloved nation.

(Free)

(For now)

"Mercy, I'm going to need you to extract someone. I'd estimate about one hundred pounds, five foot two. Heading to exit C, ETA seven minutes."

The swiss doctor's soft voice confirmed her availability. "This is going to have to be one of the last, 76. The Red Stripe's approaching."

"Affirmative."

He jumps down a flight of stairs, boots clattering onto the concrete. He drifts back into the rhythm of his morning runs with Tracer, the velocity and the inertia of his old body hurtling down hallways, stairs, unable to be stopped by anyone or anything. The wind rushes past his jacket (he remembers the gaudy coat, oh how it flapped around) and he breaks through a glass window with his boot, the crash making the slip of a girl in his hands twitch.

He can't land in a roll or do any slides, so he's steady, on two feet, thundering across the rooftop.

Korea's gotten complacent. Security's weak, now, and the fewer bolt heads in the way, the easier it is for Overwatch to dart in and out like a hawk. The orange glints across the glass panels, shadowed in the alleyways between steel buildings. In the distance, the rotors of a helicopter pierce the quiet.

The iron giants pass, and there she is.

Winged, arms outstretched, she floats down, descending onto the rooftop, white and orange and yellow, platinum blonde hair flapping around in the breeze. He spares it little thought, and he nears her. He places the girl, carefully, in the hands of the guardian, who nods and, without another word, ascends again, great golden wings flapping, flying to the helicopter.

Jack Morrison wants to join her, get out, out of this _machine hell_.

But there's work to be done.

"Genji, what's your status?"

"There's been a.. _complication_ , Commander."

"I'm on my way."

And so he runs.

* * *

**When she awakes** , it's to a white room and… soft humming. She didn't know when the man had left, but now, she was.. Elsewhere. Warm, clothed. She breathed in sharply.

The humming continues, and Hana keeps her eyes closed. She listens to the soft sounds of the woman on the other side of the room. She's still hazy, still delirious, still stuck in that black room.

She opens her eyes.

"Why, hello there. How are you doing, _Liebling?_ " A woman, blonde hair (so bright!) strafing over her forehead on her right, tied up in a ponytail. Bright blue eyes full of caring (mother?) and a gentle smile on her full lips. Hana takes in every inch of her face, her own brown eyes wide open, scanning, saving. (angel, she notes)

(Is this a human, a real human?)

"Ar-are y-you real?" She didn't mean to sound so choked, so broken. She does anyways.

"Hush..," The angel places her hands (warm and soft, unlike Hana's torn fingers) on Hana's wrist, rubbing it softly. "I am real, and you are safe. It's over, your pain is all over. You're safe now."

Hana Song's eyes grow wet, they burn. Her mouth opens and she lets out a warble, a break. She can't help the hot tears that slide down her cheeks, and she can't help the way she grabs the woman's arm, a railing over an endless chasm.

_Human_

"Who." She says, wiping her tears away. She's garbed in white as she sits up, under soft silk blankets. Her eyes blink around the room, cataloging, saving. It's white but it's not like That Room, it's not harsh, the light is.. Good, it's soft, it's warm. There's trays and trays of medicine, tools, papers, (Plush toys, how cute!), and the door is right there.

"I'm Doctor Angela Ziegler of Overwatch. And we've just rescued you from the Korean Omnic stronghold. We've departed and are heading for our temporary base, at which point you'll be free to choose what you want to do."

"..Ok.." Hana's stopped crying (embarrassment that it is) and she's let go of Angela's arm, and takes deep breaths. Her mind is moving at light speed through the universe, databanks of hidden info that she had locked up, cabinets of interesting information, memories of stuffed bunnies and sweets and treats and (Mother?).

"Now, would you mind answering a few basic questions for me? I can come back later if you need some adjustment time." Angela smiled. Hana doesn't want to refuse.

"No, I-I'm fine, please ask me.."

"Alright, question one. What is your name and age?" Angela wears a white doctor's coat and has a clipboard on her forearm and a pencil in the other (when did she procure those?).

"I'm.. Hana Song." It takes longer than she understands to say that. So long. Who is Hana Song? She's not Dva, obviously. Dva died with her friends on _that_ day. Hana is just what her mother called her. Hana isn't what she is _now_ , but it'll have to do.

Angela nods, quickly scraping her pen across the paper. A peaceful silence reigns for a moment.

"Oh, I'm eighteen." Hana quickly adds, a slight warmth across her cheeks.

_God I'm human again I just felt awkward_

Angela laughs, and Hana smiles.

"Alright, what do you know about Overwatch?"

"Well, I know it's a peacekeeping force put together to fight the.." _Don't falter, Song. They've been your daily life for the last three years. Don't break down on yourself like this._

"The.." _Dammit, Song._

"Yes, that's fine, it's fine." Angela places her hand on the teen's shoulder and squeezes, not missing a beat. Hana looks down at her hands, which are covered in.. salve?

"I.. was captured three years ago." She says.

"You don't have to talk about it, Hana. We can heal those wounds.. when they're not so fresh. I won't be asking any more questions, so you can relax." She places the clipboard on the table and turns around, shuffling a few papers.

"Okay.."

"I'll hold off the simple medical examination until a little later. Is that fine?"

"Uh.. yeah."

The doctor smiles at the teen, and exits the room. "Call me if you need anything, I'm right outside this door. Anything at all, okay, sugar?"

"Yeah, I.. Okay."

Her head thuds back into the pillow. She can't sleep. Her eyes watch the white ceiling, so pure, so.. Bright. No more dark rooms.

No more dark rooms… She's going to cry again.

_The future is a question mark_


	2. Contact (Dead Legends)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cont. Intro
> 
> D.va meets overwatch.

It's an hour later that she musters the courage to leave the little white room.

 

Hana had taken a drawing pad and spent the course of several hours, scratching, scribbling, pencil clutched in between her bruised fingers, daring to (remind, remember).

What came before, what came after? She made notes. She saw her past through a plastic bag (When's my birthday? What's my dad's name?) and she huffed. Sweat dotted her brow, soaking into her pale skin and she scratched at her chin.

 

 _Daunting_ , her spirit whispered. _Impossible_ , her heart whispered. How does she _come back_ from being less than human for one sixth of her life? Does she?

People were scary. So, when she left her room, it felt like heading into the void. It's strange, she considers, that her "place" among her own kind felt far more alien than the black room. (home?)

She'd changed into a fluffy pair of pajamas some time ago, at Dr. Ziegler's request. Her body had long since accustomed to the biting chill, the brushed metal against her thigh; this fluffy material felt like she had decided to try wearing a cloud.

She wouldn't admit that she missed her plugsuit. (That old thing? Tight, uncomfortable, and _always_ too revealing. I'm glad it's gone.) Something about it held her spirit, in the hours and hours she'd spent encroached in its poly-whatsit folds, and she'd imprinted her warrior's strength into it, scant as it was.

 

The area around her room was buzzing, with clatters of knives, plates (food!), and vivacious chatter. Frozen to the spot, she regarded the inhabitants of what seemed to be a crowded lobby, various humans occupying every corner and sofa in the area.

Bright open windows, letting in the bright blue; ceramic floors that felt glassy under her bare feet; Circular, the room's decor was stark and simple, yet comfortable and inviting. Tables, wide tables, laden with plates and trays and bowls of steaming, sizzling, intercontinental food. A large man (the largest she's ever seen) with a grizzled white beard piles sausages onto his plate with a great bucket-hand, humming as a blonde woman chatters into his ear animatedly.

Hana turns around and opens the door to her room again, escape on her mind.

"Hana!" Dr. Ziegler's sunny, accented voice rings out across the room, and Hana freezes mid step.

"Er.." Hana spins on her heel and rubs the back of her head sheepishly as Angela (her hair's down and she looks so… different without her glasses and coat), nears, taking soft steps in tiny shoes and tugging that lumbering man behind her.

"How are you, sweetie? Feeling better? Ready for some lunch?" Her arm pulls around the teen's shoulders, brushing her brown hair (in need of a trim, so badly) and brings the younger woman back onto the tile floor, and towards a table full of food.

Hana inhales the telltale scent of meaty chunks of pork and beef (disgusted or ravenous?). Her mouth watered and she couldn't keep her eyes off the steel bowls. Angela held out a plate, her blue eyes sparkling with mirth and her lips curling into a knowing smile.

 

"I'm good. Hungry, now." She answers. Her face heats up slightly, but Angela chuckles, plops the plate into the girl's hands, clutches the tongs between her thin fingers, and drops a hearty helping into the teen's plate.

"Mess hall is over there. Come sit at the head table, we won't mind." Angela points to a doorway occupied by a few personnel, and waves at them. The suits nod, and Angela smiles. "I'll be there in a second, dear. Go on!"

Reluctantly, Hana crawls over to the other room and past the suits, into a smaller room. Veiled orange curtains, lit by a chandelier, glass shining bright like a local star, illuminating the glass table and the wooden oak chairs. The chatter is subdued, quieter, more steely.

The chairs were filled by a multitude of people. A few of the heads turned to her, and she continued to walk forward, making herself as tiny as possible and curling into a seat at the very end of the table. With only about a dozen chairs, she considered herself an interloper on a sacred ground.

"Why, hello!" German, proud, the voice echoes down her eardrum like a low rumble of an earthquake, strong and steadfast. The enormous man (mountain man) drops into the seat beside her, the poor chair rattling under his muscular weight, and he places his hands on the table, his right finding her own.

She shivers slightly at the warmth of his palm as he shakes her hand, his rocky strength softening like butter around her far smaller digits. His gentleness makes her gasp out loud, and shush herself mentally as she lets a faint smile curl her lips.

 

"I'm Reinhardt Wilhelm, fräulein! Enchanted to meet you." She looks up, up, into his great face, hard set but streaked with laugh lines. His beard dominates his jaw, crisp and cloudy white, bushier than santa; and his eye, (oh my god, that's so badass) a jagged streak split his eyelid, and underneath, a milky orb. His other eye was half lidded and his smile showed his teeth. Instantly, Hana felt safe.

"H-hi!" (Since when was her voice that high and girlish?)

"I simply must introduce you to my friends! This is the high command of overwatch, and I've fought with them from the _very beginning_ , and will, until my last breath!" (Where's his indoor voice?)

Hana nodded, dazed. The German's booming introduction had made the already curious inhabitants turn to her.

To her left, a Japanese man with grey streaks and a stony face munched the sausage, keeping his face trained ahead but his hawkish eyes scanned over Hana, jet-black eyebrows raising slightly. However, when he caught her eye, his mouth slipped into an uncertain smile, and he blinked.

Further down, there was a rosy Chinese lady with wide rimmed spectacles who flashed Hana one of the brightest grins she'd seen in seven years. (Her blue complements her so well!) her fork is dug deep into a fairly small dish of bratwurst that had been nibbled at for what seemed to be quite some time without any true progress. Her button nose and wide, lidded eyes (so cute!) overshadowed the light wrinkles around her mouth and eye, lending an impression of a woman whose body lacked conviction about the fact that it was actually aging at all.

Across from her, an eagle perched; a woman, with cinnamon skin and dark, (gorgeous), eyes, appraised her, militaristically. Hana fidgeted under her glare. A black tattoo decorated her cheek, branching off her eyelashes; her hair framed her austere face, a portrait of power, gold ornaments on the edges of her bangs. (Nobody had business being that intimidating in a tracksuit!)

The Chinese woman spoke first.

"Heya!" Hana waved, her hand twitching slightly and she winced, rubbing her bruised fingers. The Japanese man moved out of the way slightly, letting the curious lady closer to inspect the young girl.

"I'm Mei Ling Zhou, but you can call me Mei! This sore thumb here is Hanzo Shimada." Hanzo sighs and nods to Hana as well, offering a "Greetings." in return. His arms folded, and she sees intricate tattoo work under his loose T-shirt.

"I am Pharah. Pleased to meet you, Miss..." Pharah tilts her head.

 

"Hana Song."

 

"Full name? Now, I feel strange for going with my callsign. I'm Fareeha Amari, but you can call me Pharah." Her voice is sharp iron and Hana's is squeaky rubber. She avoids meeting the older woman's eyes. Reinhardt chuckles at seemingly nothing, placing his hand on Hana's shoulder and squeezing (a bit too gently, he's afraid of breaking her).

"New recruit?" Asks Hanzo.

"Recruit? She's a child, don't be silly, Shimada." Pharah goes back to biting into an apple with a wet crunch.

"Angela and Jack brought her in, so they probably have something in mind." Adds Reinhardt.

"There isn't a lot of options for refugees these days, Amari. We can't just throw them on the street and expect them to fend for themselves." Hanzo bites back.

Hana pipes up. "I'm eighteen, so.."

 

"You are still a child! Angela will see the truth. Do not worry, we will find a safe place for you, away from this war."

"Humanity needs its soldiers." Gravel in a river. The voice comes from a place she can't see, obscured by Reinhardt's bulky shoulder. The German moves, and she thanks him softly.

Darker than Pharah, bearded, scars mar his otherwise handsome face, bandages, gritty stubble. His hair is short and brisk, like freshly mowed grass. A simple black hoodie and jeans, strong, muscled arms under them. His hands are missing fingers, and he holds a cup of coffee between his palms. He looks straight through her, to some far off place. She feels like a ghost.

"Gabriel, you _know_ that-"

"I know _nothing_. Don't accuse me of knowing things when nobody knows _anything_ , in this world. We're _all_ shooting in the dark here."

If Pharah was an eagle next to to the bunny, Gabriel is a lion. There's something deeply dangerous about him, the way he sits, the way he stares, and Hana's blood turns to ice when he focuses those two dark eyes onto her.

"She's got a warrior's spirit, this one."

 

(Purple flecks of pure light, her thumb jamming itself into the trigger, screams of a forgotten goddess, blood, metal, sweat, tears, machines falling into the water and down, down, flight, rummaging through scrap for her friends, days without showers or sleeping, gunshot wounds, bullets dug out by children)

What makes her a warrior? Nothing. She's weak, knobby kneed, speaks like a mouse.

 

(Speak softly and carry a big stick.)

 

"As much as I don't like it, I agree with Reyes. We've all read the reports."(about her?) Hanzo scratches his beard. "We don't have much choice in this day and age, so if she's old enough to have been an adult in the old world, she is old enough to fight as one now. Our destiny grows near, and we may all die like dogs."

"Hold on there, partner." Next to Reyes, a white american with a brown beard that looked like it had never been shaved in his life, and stringy, wiry hair that hid his neck. His skin had seen better days, much like the man next to him. "What file?"

"Late on the report as always, McCree." Reyes mutters.

Mei looks confused and baffled about the entire topic. "Excuse me, are you all serious? Why is this even a discussion? Hana's said nothing about wanting to fight at all!"

"Well, yes. But I know what happens when the bolt heads get to you. I know." Reyes goes quiet. "I know."

He turns to her. "You want revenge. And humanity's last fighting force, Overwatch, is how you get that justice. You join us, and we save humanity. What do you think, Song?"

Hana's lost. Join overwatch?

She's not much, just a girl who was good at games. She was "more", back then.

She was a lot of things, back then. She was good at what she did, better than anyone. And she knew it. God, did she.

_I am a diva, watch me burn_

Her wings had been clipped, of course. Now she knew the truth that her stupid head had missed the entire time: she was helpless, tongue tied, ankles bound. Everything she had accomplished was by standing on the shoulders of giants. Without Baby, she was nothing. With Baby, she was still a kid with a big stick.

 

(Elbow grease, years spent finding out how every part of the pink goddess functioned, piece by piece, metal, oil, energy, the unbearable, loveable heat of the engine block clutched to her chest, thirteen years of age, child soldiers, wings clipped, falling, falling, naked, tied, bound)

 

The angel came back in, and she was holding a man by the arm. Pharah and Mei turned their heads. The man was tall, thin, Japanese. His neck was metal, and his arms were metal, and his legs were metal, his chest was metal (not _them_ , again. He was a _human_ , she saw it in his eyes. Not _them_ again)

His leg limped, and his arm was around the shoulders of Dr. Ziegler, whose stature only reached up to his chin. He hobbled along, before Angela slowly set him down in a chair, metal scraping against the oak. He groaned softly, and Angela rubbed his metal bicep, correcting his posture with careful hands.

His face was youthful, marred as it was with scars. (Green hair? What?) his forehead had a large metal bar across it, linking to his body down the sides of his head. Hana's eyes trailed down, down, to his sweater, slipped down over his metal like it was flesh and blood. (He was, she promised herself. He was a person, she _knew_ that) His left arm was painted platinum, and his right, black. Metallic fingers groped around, searching, searching for a fork. His left reaches over and puts it in his right hand, and clutches his own wrist, guiding it into the plate.

Angela watches. Hana is transfixed.

Every movement of the black hand is jagged, clunky, ill fitting, like a puzzle piece that doesn't match. His left is so much better, so perfect, precise. But the right labors, in its task, like a foolish merchant peddling wares it doesn't understand. At every missed morsel, spoon dropping porridge, Angela's pale hand reaches over, only for the man to whisper into the doctor's ear, softly, pleadingly. She draws her hand back and (it kills her, but she knows he needs it).

"So, kid. What do you think?" Reyes brings her back to reality, and she feels a drop of sweat as her hands still, looking around, at the faces of those strangers she had just met. They look at her, at her infinite moment of confusion.

"W-what?"

"Do you want to fight?"

"Jesus, Gabriel, what are you all talkin-" Angela drops her sigil on her patient's task, her brow furrowing.

"Yeah." Hana says.

(Why..)

"Hana, don't rush-"

"The girl said what she thought. What she actually ends up doing is up to Gabriel and Jack, but she's made her decision." Hanzo seems to be half engaged, his eyes wandering to Ziegler and the man who could not eat his porridge. (Do they know each other?)

"I simply.."

Hana fidgets. She doesn't belong here, why were they talking about her? Can't she just.. Not be here?

"No, this is outrageous. She is just a girl, and you denied me when I was that age. This isn't about us, it's about what's right and what's fair for the _children._ " Pharah holds her fork tighter.

"She is an adult, and a skilled one. Are we so spineless that we will all die like animals because of this, and we turned away a soldier who was willing?"

"Many of us have fought for decades, and Hana has only given us one word. She probably wishes to retract it now. There is nothing concrete about this, my friends. Let this not divide us.:." Reinhardt puts his knife down into his plate with a soft clink.

"I want to destroy the robots." She says. And it's true. God. Damn. Robots. End them all. (Run the test again, I wish to see if the empirical data will manifest in another Trauma instance. Punish via electroshock as per usual, but add moderate sensory deprivation. We are achieving some very valuable data here.) "I want to save humans." (Mother and Father were filled with bullets, and now are buried alone, separated by hundreds of miles. Their daughter never got to say goodbye.)

"She's spoken twice, now. Do you really want to deny her the justice that she needs? She wants to destroy them. They've killed her people." Reyes' voice now fights for the air along with several other voices. Merged, arguments for and against blend, a cacophony of debate making Hana feel very, very small.

And then, a crash, a clatter. Her heart drops briefly, and she looks over to the source. It's the man.

Angela gasps, and rises out of her chair, sending it sliding backwards.

"Genji!"

The table is broken, metal arm sent through it. Splinters of wood, broken, separated, scattered around, and the man- Genji- grunts as Angela wraps her arms around his metal bicep and disengages it from the table with. Genji's eyes are closed, and his arm twitches, as Angela pulls him out of the chair.

"I am very sorry." Says Genji. "I have not had this trouble with my previous limb replacements-"

"If you hadn't been cocky and tried to engage a Crata drone by yourself you wouldn't have had to." Pharah's voice is bitter and brittle. Genji winces.

"Pharah, please.." Angela turns her head to the Egyptian woman.

"It's right. She's right. I am sorry."

"Genji…"

"I wish you good luck, young Hana. We will perhaps meet again." Genji says, and he rises out of his chair. Angela begins to guide him, but he lays an arm on her shoulder. A moment (a whole conversation) of silent speech, their eyes (green and blue) meeting, and she lets go.

Genji limps out of the room.

"He's lucky there was enough of him to bring back." Reyes says.

Hana is lost.


	3. Are You With Us? (Doctor's Orders)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziegler and Song have a heart to heart.
> 
> Meeting High Command. A rousing Speech.

“How’d you get this?”

 

Hana bit down on her tongue slightly, her body shuddering as those light fingertips brushed against her. Ziegler moved her fingers down, off that angry red gash on Hana’s spine, and Hana’s body relaxed slightly, letting out a long breath. She shut her eyes and placed her palms on her knees, fingers digging into her bare kneecaps. The cool air was rushing into her gown, across her jutting ribs, sending shivers down her neck.

 

“I d-don’t remember.” She stuttered, and a gentle grip found its way into her hand again.

 

“I’m sorry, but this is going to sting.”

 

Her yelp was out before she could hold it in, the cool paste against the wound, nails against chalkboard, muscles tensed and raging as this (invader) seeped into her skin.

 

And it did sting, when she felt that murky salve on her back (fire) burning through her spine and organs and-

 

Hot tears slipped down her lids, but she wiped those down with her reddened knuckles. And then the bandage went on, taut against her skin, sealing the scar like the others.

 

“Ok, Hana, you can change back now.” Dr. Ziegler turned around, gloves disposed off in the trash, her hands fiddling with a clipboard. Placing it on the table, she opened her cabinet and slipped a slim wad of papers into it. She picked the clipboard up again, turning around, her white coat swishing around her as she glided over to the table where Hana was perched.

 

Hana began to untie her her hospital gown, and Angela’s eyes darted up and widened. “Wait, after I’m out of the room.”

 

“Oh.” Hana stopped and looked down, face red hot.

 

“No problem, don’t worry about it too much. I get that a lot.” Ziegler gave her a full faced grin, licking her thumb and flicking through the sheets full of medical information in front of her. However, her brow remained furled, and her gait was straight and wiry, far from the relaxed balance she had held before Hana’s medical checkup.

 

Hana twiddled her thumbs, her legs restless, swinging back and forth listlessly. The knot in her stomach tightened, sending a shiver through her. Angela’s eye twitched upwards, her eyebrow raising slightly, but she said nothing.

 

“So, uh.”

 

“Well, what I said about malnourishment is a priority. You’re going to have to be eating a lot if you’re going to regain lost muscle mass. Vitamin deficiency is going to be a real issue, but I have a few medications that should help you with that. Unfortunately, I can only give you a certain amount... “ Ziegler brushed her hair out of her eyes and looked past Hana for a second. “We’re short on supplies, and that’s going to be the situation for,uh, quite a while.”

 

“Hm.” Hana was going to explode if nothing intelligent came out of her own mouth in the next hour. “Thanks, Ang- Dr. Ziegler.”

 

“You can call me Angela. There’s very few doctors around, anyways, so it's a pointless title.”

 

“On this base?”

 

“In general.”

 

Hana put her chin in her hands and curled up slightly, if Angela noticed, she didn’t say anything.

 

“Somehow, atrophy isn’t a big cause for concern for you, so while I do recommend regular exercise, we won’t need to go as far as physical therapy.”

 

(Of course atrophy wasn’t a problem)

 

(Run, run. How much can humans run? Data needs to be compiled. If the human stops running, administer neural stimulants. We have compiled this data before but every sample is, surprisingly, different. 3540 is keeping tabs on this one. Its physical size might mean that it has a lower limit than the others.)

 

“We have a gym and a training range on site, so that should be perfect.”

 

Hana nodded.

 

“And the scars… I’ll have to see you quite a few times to make sure they heal at a continuous pace. I’ll give you some painkillers to help with any discomfort you may have.” The blue eyes scanned down, down, stopping on something for a fraction of a second, widening. She tore her eyes off it, and flipped the page. (Nobody else would have noticed, but Hana did.)

 

“Now, the basic questions I asked you, are just that: basic. I’m not a licensed psychotherapist, so my knowledge is rusty and semi-professional at best. For now, however, I’m going with the assumption, a pretty logical one, that you’re stable. Not like anyone pays attention to psych evals anymore, since we don’t have psychiatrists anymore.” She huffs and pulls her fingers through her hair. “Of course, if you want to talk to me, about _anything_ , I am avali-”

 

*beep* Angela’s eyes drift down to her coat, where a red light beeps, defiant. She sighs.

 

“I’ll be right back. You can get changed.”

 

Angela disappears out the door, leaving Hana alone with the silence.

 

She picks up a pair of casual leggings, dropping the blue gown and slipping into them. A woollen sweater above her head, and she takes a seat on the table again.

 

Ziegler opens the door with a crisp click, and holds it open, beckoning the young woman to leave the (safety) of the room. Hana’s face scrunches up slightly, but she follows, and the two women stride through the wide halls once again, Hana shuffling to keep pace with the longer-legged Angela.

 

The evening had gifted the populace of the watchtower with rays of long orange starburst, glistening across the glass and sheer white. The interiors now glowed with their own sparse orange lights, small hotspots of solace for lingering personnel, seated on plush chairs and chattering quietly among themselves.

 

“Now, I’m sure you are.. Baffled, and a little lost.” Angela starts.

(Oh god, yes.)

 

She laughs quickly and nervously, like a hyena being stabbed through the gut.

 

“Uh, yeah. I’m not.. Sure where I am.”

 

“Well, I’m afraid I can’t quite tell you where exactly, but we’re at Overwatch headquarters. After we extracted you from the Korean Omnium, we brought you back here to recover.”

 

Angela’s eyes turned down and her lips drew taut.

 

“I promise, I didn’t know they wanted to recruit you… You’re still recovering, you don’t know what’s happened in the past years… They have no right…”

 

“It’s fine, Dr. Ziegler. I want to.”

 

“You’re still so… in the dark about everything! It’s so strange that they’d spring the question so early, when they’d just met you, and…” She sighed, and stopped, giving her a gentle smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Look at me, blabbering, again. I trust you, Liebling. Your choice is what matters.”

 

“Dr. Ziegler… I don’t know how to thank you all enough. For everything.” Hana wasn’t going to cry again, she had decided. (crying was for little girls, not soldiers)

 

“Honey, it was a pleasure. I hope you grow close to all of us, and if there’s greener pastures elsewhere and you want to go, I will do everything in my power to let you have peace, with all you’ve been through.” Hana’s eyes widened when the older woman stopped dead in her tracks. She turned to Hana, neared, and enveloped her in a hug.

 

She could feel Angela’s heart beating, hear her breath as she shook, slightly. Hana embraced her as well, her arm around the doctor’s back.

 

(“Hana, I’m so proud of you. You have the strength to keep our home safe. Always remember that you are my child, a Song. You were born with great gifts. And, even if I am going now, I will never desert you.” Mother said, and then she left.)

 

(And never came back.)

 

(This wasn’t just about Hana anymore. There was more to it than that.)

 

And when it ended, there was a wetness to Angela’s eyes (Oceans of blue). Hana got a pat on the shoulder, and Mercy turned away. “You can ask me your questions, and I’ll answer them. Anything you want.”

 

(Oh god, that’s a tall order.)

 

“Uh, what happened? To, like, everything?”

 

She inhaled deeply, and exhaled, her eyes fluttering closed.

 

“We were betrayed. From the inside, someone betrayed us, and this cost us… everything. It was right before we were about to strike the decisive blow against the omnics, and neutralize them; we found out that it had been a setup.”

 

Her eyes scanned the white walls. “Overwatch died that day. Jack Morrison died, Gabriel Reyes died, Angela Ziegler died… we all perished and the world realized that there was nothing left to protect them.”

 

“There was another decade or so of war, of course. As you’d expect. We had to all “die”. We all knew that our lives were in grave danger until we found out the root of the corruption and purged them from the system. We couldn’t come back until we had cleansed the virus from the body.”

 

They descended a set of stairs, leading down to a long corridor, glass panels lining the left and lending permission to the white light beams to accost the opposing wall. Hana’s eyes adjusted, for a second, and she peered through the glass, into a room filled with metal devices, well worn exercise equipment. Mirrors coated every wall the glass didn’t already monopolize, doubling, tripling, multiplying the occupants of the room infinitely over.

 

She looked into the mirror.

 

The girl who looked back was emaciated, sullen, with wiry brown hair, dark bags pulling her eyes down. Her legs and arms and… (so bony), if she was wearing anything less, her ribs would be jutting through her pale skin.

 

Angela opened the glass door to the gym with a creak, stepping through. Inside, the soft murmur of speech, a deep voiced man (who sounded so familiar), a man whose voice was like smooth butter against her ears, and a soft spoken woman. Hana saw their silhouettes against the white lights, and as she stepped through, they turned to look at her.

 

White hair, grizzled face, sharp jaw, handsome (yet past his prime), heavy arms, he wore a white T-shirt that fit him a bit too well, and grey sweatpants. Seated on a bench press, slouched over, his eyes flickered to hers, and she glanced away, breaking his gaze swiftly.

 

The other man was significantly softer, with less defined musculature, slim and tall, youthful in a way that people just weren’t anymore, the only hints to his true age being the crisp lines around the corners of his lips. His hair was smooth and combed over, perfectly cropped, complimenting his sharp nose and suave grin. He wore a black body-fitting V-neck and shorts, his angled legs mostly hairless.

 

The woman was dark, wrinkles dominating what were indisputably classically beautiful features from her youth. A tattoo (like Pharah’s) held her lidded eyes down, and her silver hair, tied up, danced in front of her eyes. Despite her age, she was made of tough sinew and muscle, marked with scars. Her tank top and shorts were a deep, navy blue. Her eyes scanned Hana, who bristled.

 

“Angela, how good to see you, dear.” She said, stepping off her treadmill and taking a seat on the bench, towel around her neck. Angela smiles and steps forward.

 

“To you as well, Ana!”

 

“So, is this the new recruit?” Asked the man with white hair.

 

“Uh, yeah, according to Gabe, she… is.”

 

Hana stepped forward.

 

“Jack, you’ll scare the poor dear.” Tutted Ana, brushing her hair out of her eyes.

 

Jack’s face morphed from stone into clay, muscles relaxing, and he shook his head slightly. The other man barked out a musical laugh, patting him on the back.

 

“Cheer up, Jacko! You’ll get better at it if you keep practicing!”

 

He turned to her, and held out his hand, which she took. He had soft, warm palms, yet, a vice like grip, her small digits held in place. She looked up at him, forcing herself to stare at his nose, lest she make eye contact.

 

“Uh, I’m Hana Song, it’s nice to meet you.”

 

“Gerard Lacroix, and the pleasure is all mine, Mademoiselle.” The French word slipped off his tongue like soft silk, and Jack rolled his eyes out of the corner of her vision.

 

“Married for more than a decade and still hitting on any girl he sees... “ Jack muttered. Ana chuckled lightly.

 

“This is Commander Jack Morrison, the Boss.” Ana said. “I’m Ana Amari, the second in command. Well, third.”

 

Hana realized she was talking to the Bosses. The actual bosses of Overwatch. (Damn.) Her body straightened up, and she looked into the eyes of the Strike Commander, those razor sharp blue eyes gleamed with decades of cynicism. Her gaze wavered, slightly, because (who on earth could win a staring contest with this guy?)

 

“So, you really want to join our ranks, Song?” Asked Jack, turning to her. She nodded, clearing her throat.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“You have no idea what we do, the kind of work you’d be doing, or if you’ll get a safe place to live, food to eat, and if you’ll be forced to do things you don’t agree with. That’s a lot of confidence you’re placing in a couple of strangers.” His tone turned icy, his eyebrows furrowing.

 

Hana’s throat had a three inch pebble lodged in it.

“I-”

 

“It’s the kind of blind faith that leads to people getting killed. You think that, since we saved you, you owe us. Answer me this, Song. Are you really willing to lay your life down for a group of people who you’ve known for only a day? Wouldn’t you like to know what else you could be missing?”

 

She looked around at the others. Gerard looked aside, finding sudden interest in the furniture, and Ana nodded back, filling Hana with a small burst of confidence.

“Sir, I find that I don’t have much choice for potential options.” Jack’s eyes narrowed, and Hana felt her heart sink. She continued, nonetheless. “I have so few things to cling on, that even one dinner conversation and a few hours alone with the first kind soul I’ve seen in years can…”

 

She breathed in deep.

 

“Sir, what I’ve seen here is something dependable in a sea of worries. I don’t want to worry about finding meals, or shelter, or people who care about me and my well being. If I go, I don’t know where any of those are going to be, and if I will get them at all.”

 

“If I have to fight, I will fight. It is the same enemy that’s killed so many of us, killed my parents, and kept me a p-prisoner for years? I will _gladly_ lay down my life for a cause that I’ve seen, first hand, has kept _me_ alive and is willing to do the same for others like me.”

 

“You all were my greatest heroes, growing up. I loved you all and the bravery and hope you stood for. An opportunity to fight alongside you all… even if it was as a janitor, I would be honored to take it.”

 

Her throat was dry by the end, so she gulped and kept her eyes up, looking into Jack’s eyes, unwilling to break his gaze.

 

His face remained neutral, but he seemed content with her answer.

 

“You sure she isn’t your kid, Jack? She can bullshit up a storm if she wants to. Reminds me of you, back in the good old days.” Gerard chuckled.

 

“T-that wasn’t bu-” She protested, but Jack cut her off.

 

“Kid, you have a lot to learn, but you’re far off from the vain punk who sat on the airwaves four years ago. We’ll make a soldier out of you yet.” And he squeezed her shoulder.

 

He took a seat back on his bench.

 

Ana cleared her throat. “Jack, aren’t you going to make it... official?”

 

He scoffed.

 

“Official? We don’t know a _damn thing_ about what this kid can do. Set up the practice range, and then we can talk about _official_.”

She gulped.

 

“You’ve got heart, Song. But if you want to fight with the best, you’ll need to have extraordinary skills.”

 

“And a whole lot of balls.” Gerard snickered.

 

“Doesn’t your wife need you to do some errands or something?” Jack growled.

 

“Only on Tuesdays.”

 

“It _is_ Tuesday.” Ana chimed in.

 

“.....I guess I’m gonna go, then.” He wrapped up his towel at breakneck pace, before rushing to the door.

 

“Tell Amé hi for me!” Angela chirped, and Gerard gave them a quick salute and left.

 

“One of these days, Amélie is going to kill him.” Jack muttered.

 

“I think I’m going to get going, too. Poor Genji is probably waiting for me and that maintenance that never came, bless his heart, I’ll just-”

 

“He treats you like garbage and you just brush it off. You have a lot of patience, Ziegler.”

 

“He’s just having a tough time… dealing with it all.”

 

“We all need some time to adjust, Jack. You know that as well as I do.” Ana sighs. “One of these days, we’re going to have to get used to the fact that the world has changed more than any of us can handle. And either we retire our methods, or our methods retire _us_.”

 

“You’re talking like I’m a geezer like you, Amari.”

 

“Fifty five years a young man does not make!” The aging lady relaxed her muscles, patting next to her, beckoning Hana over. “Take a seat, dear. It’s been a long day.”

 

She had been sitting for the better part of an hour, but she obliged the lady.

 

Angela had snuck out in the debate, shaking her head at their antics. Ana patted Hana on the back.

 

“You’re much too thin, dear.”

 

“Y-yes ma’am.”

 

“Jack, what time do they serve dinner? Is it in an hour or two?”

 

“How am I supposed to know? I just show up.” He grunts as he lifts another massive weight with his hands, veins dribbling against his skin.

 

“Well, dearie, I hear they’ve made some nice pot pie tonight, so make sure to load that belly up, hm?” She closed her eyes and gave the girl a warm smile.

 

“Yeah!”

 

“After dinner, we’re going to be running the training bots. That’s when you’re going to take your test.” Jack put the weight down, breathing quickly, but none the worse for wear.

 

“Jack, you’re being silly. Surely she can wait till she recovers?”

 

“Tomorrow, we could all _die_ in a bombing. If the girl thinks she can do it today, let her. If not, we can hold it off. Every moment we spend idle is another dozen children turned into slaves, serving a pile of circuits. Tell me how we’re _not_ living on borrowed time.”

 

Ana hugged Hana closer to her.

 

“Jack, I’ve followed you ever since you could pick up a gun. _Our_ childhood’s already passed, waging war on an unkillable enemy, do we really want to pass this... _tradition_ onto our children?”

 

“ _Your_ children. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m alone. I don’t have an obligation to return home to anyone or anything.”

 

“You have us.”

 

Jack stayed silent.

 

“Yeah, I suppose that counts.”

 

Hana didn’t want to talk. (She was already a home invader.)

 

“Uh, I’ll get going then?” She said.

 

Ana’s sighed. “Sure, honey. Do you need help finding anything?”

 

“Nah, I think I’ll be fine. I just want to take a breath of fresh air.”

 

“See you at dinner, then. Don’t be a stranger!”

 

She nodded, and left. She could feel the Commander’s eyes on her back as she stepped out the door.

 

(Will she ever not be?)

  



	4. As The Day Draws To a Close (War)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courtyard-

Wind; taciturn, it blew the branches towards the gleaming glass, kissing, softly, against her skin. She opened her mouth, swallowing, chest getting tighter, tighter; 

 

She released, and it came out in a soft puff, her nostrils flaring as she opened her eyes yet again. Her muscles loosened a modicum, and her hands shook no more.

 

The night was beautiful, truly. She looked off the garden’s patio, down, onto the sea, drifting, swishing, waves dashing against the concrete base, so, so many miles below. The building rose, a giant, above the water, but the ocean continued in every direction, infinite, listless, and the salt of the sea still reached her nose. (How long had it been?)

 

The stars were pockmarked scars across the black sky, nebulae and galaxies swirling, kicking up eternal dust. Venus glowed bright, and Saturn grew dim. She took in another breath, and it simmered in her lungs for a minute before she let it out again. 

 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” 

 

She turned to the silver man. His sweater was abandoned, sitting to the side, desolate. Genji stood, arms behind his back, his metal hull unreadable. Hana considered him for a moment. His visor shone a neon green, lighting up the night like nothing other than the silver moon.

 

“It’s pretty.”

 

“Men thousands of years in the past have looked up into this very same sky, and asked the questions that led us here today.” 

 

“I guess we all share some things.”

 

Genji chuckled softly.

 

“Do you ever wonder if an omnic looks up into this same sky and sees what we do?”

 

She hadn’t. She told him so.

 

“Sure, they don’t see it with eyes, like we do, but what’s to say that they don’t see more of it than we do? What’s to say that they don’t know the story behind every star?” His voice grew quiet.

 

Who’s to say anything? They didn’t understand decency or kindness, so why would that matter?

 

“Sometimes I wonder if people are the cause for all the hurt in the world. We cling to things that are old and weak, fearing to give them up.” 

 

Hana said nothing.

 

“We’re broken, Song. I know what you are, and you probably have figured out what I am. The world doesn’t have use for us any more.”

 

“You’re wrong.”

 

“Oh, are you sure of that?” His voice lilted up, and he walked nearer to her. She tensed.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I wish I could be as resolute, Hana. Attachment is the root of all chaos. In order to truly reach something approaching perfection, we must truly let go of all our attachments.”

 

“I don’t think that’s how it works. We need others... to survive.”

 

“Simple difference in opinions. Perhaps age has dulled my naivety.” 

 

She simmered with a rebuttal. What good would it do, however, to make an enemy out of a colleague?

 

He crossed his arms.

 

“You probably wonder what kind of man I am.”

 

“A rude one…”

 

He barked out a laugh.

 

“You’re not wrong. I grew up wanting for nothing. The world was delivered to me on a silver platter, and it was then that I realized that I was truly special.”

 

He looked down. “But I needed to fly out of the nest. So I took up the sword, under my brother’s guidance. It was going well, so well.”

 

“It was... not to last. The omnics attacked. They were strong, and even our family of warriors had no hope of eliminating them all. So we fought. I thought we were shoulder to shoulder till the end, dying by each other’s side.”

 

“Turns out, I was the only one left. The others had all fled, leaving me alone to perish. The only one who came back was my oldest friend, my brother.”

 

“When he found me, I was not long for this world. My broken body was dismantled, bloody, gored, limbless, barely clinging to this realm out of pure willpower. Hanzo needed someone to save me, a miracle worker. And he did. Doctor Ziegler. I lived, and I was given… this form.”

“You’re very lucky to be alive.”

 

He barked out a bitter chuckle.

“Luck! That’s a funny word for it.”

 

“I survived and am now in a body with many times the strength of my old, flesh one...But I will never be able to feel the sun on my back, eat the food I love, or know the touch of a woman again.”

 

“That I learnt one thing: you can trust nothing but your own two hands.” He slowly brought his black hand to his visor, touching the metal fingertips to his faceplate. “The way to survive is by yourself, because if you trust others, you will end up alone anyways; and this time, without warning.”

 

Hana looked up at the stars. Millions and millions of light years away, they shone for an aeon, before burning away, leaving nothing more than dust in their wake. 

 

“We only have so many years on this earth.” She sighed. “I’d hate to spend it alone.”

 

“We all end up in a casket that seats only one.” 

 

(She didn’t really want to continue the conversation.)

 

“I heard you mistreat Dr. Ziegler.” 

 

“Me?” He seemed to think about it, his green glow dimming for a second. “She may have saved my life, and I am… grateful for that. I do not mistreat her. Who would have said that?”

 

Hana wanted to say something, but she realized that Ziegler was as much a mystery to her as the cyborg.

“The commander said your way of responding to her service is la...lacking.” She cleared her throat.

“I see.”

 

Genji turned to the table and took a seat. Glass with wicker chairs, there was a flat board haphazardly crouched on the surface, tiny pieces of ceramic around it. 

 

“A game of chess till dinner, Miss Song? Assuming you know how to play.”

 

She tilted her head. (What?)

 

“You are welcome to go inside, but I know that you do not consider this place your

Home. You’d be as lost as a puppy if you wandered those halls. However, you  _ could _ stay here and pass the time until the good doctor collects you.” 

 

She fidgeted, but took a seat anyways, the hard spine of the chair pushing into her tailbone. Slouching over as the metal man arranged those chess pieces, she put her hands on her knees and took a deep breath.

 

“Nervous?” He chuckled.

 

“Y-yeah. How’d you guess?”

 

“I can hear your heartbeat. You’re rather anxious about something.” His head stilled, as if concentrating. “Are you sure you want to play? I may reconsider my offer.”

 

“I got it.”

 

“As you wish.”

 

He waved at the pieces, his silver hand coming to the forefront and his other retreating under the table.

 

Hana looked down at the pieces.  _ Pawn, Knight, King, Queen, Rook, Bishop...  _

 

(Games were her life. She knew games more than she knew her own anatomy, more than she knew when the sun rose in the sky, when the moon shone full or crescent. She learnt the rules first, and then, the way you break those rules and get by anyways.)

 

She pushed the pawn forward.

 

He pushed his pawn forward.

 

She moved her bishop.

 

He moved another pawn.

 

(Checkmate in seven moves)

 

She moved her pawn.

 

They played.

 

As so it happened, checkmate in seven moves.

 

“You are a challenging opponent, Hana Song.” Something in his voice was a cool glass of iron nails. She ignored it. Her mind was swimming.

 

(It has beaten us seventy times out of eighty. The human surpasses our algorithms in every possible way. Lobotomy is now disincluded as a possibility, as it would be a waste of resources. Please continue to monitor.)

 

“Thanks.”

 

“How did you know I was going to try to pin-check you?”

 

“I saw it in my mind’s eye.” She massaged her temples.

 

“Very interesting. Another?”

 

Her head was pounding. She said yes.

 

“I shall play white this time.”

 

(She won again, because of course she would.)

 

She excused herself from the company of the silent ninja, stumbling through the halls until she saw the polished sign of the women’s restroom.

 

It was lit with a dim orange bulb, and she saw herself in the mirror.

 

Her body dropped onto the counter, and she held herself up by her elbows. Her palm wrapped around the knob of the faucet, that sleek metal wrenching under her grip. Her fingers protested as she shook the knob, but finally, it gave, and the rush of water splashed against the bowl of the granite sink.

 

She was breathing heavily, and her shaking hands brushed the cold, cold, water. She touched her hands to her face, and shrieked inside as the chill splashed across her cheeks and eyelids. She rinsed her face and ran some through her hair.

 

(The girl in the mirror looked absolutely pathetic.)

 

She walked back to the balcony.

 

“Sorry, I had to go to the bathroom.”

 

“No issue, Hana. Are you feeling alright?”

 

“Yeah I’m… I’m fine.”

 

She took her seat again, the wind blowing softly against her wet hair.

 

“It is about dinner time.” He said.

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yes, you should go and have your meal.”

 

She didn’t want to, but she left the chair, her spine protesting. She stretched, her legs strained despite herself. 

 

“It’s been nice.” She said.

 

“Indeed. It has been nice meeting you, Hana Song.” He nodded genially, and she went back into the building.

 

-

 

The dinner was, surprisingly, not a buffet. Angela insisted that Hana sit at the head table again (for reasons unclear). Hana felt less like eating and more like doing the opposite, but when chicken pot pie was laid in front of her, she took hesitant jabs at it with her fork.

 

The people seated had changed, with some having disappeared mysteriously through the day, like the wayward Commander Reyes and his cowboy sidekick, leaving empty chairs and cutlery.

Instead, seated among them were a few new faces, chief being an energetic young woman with spiky brown hair that reminded Hana of the hurricanes she had seen in her youth; she moved with a kind of supernatural urgency that didn’t mesh with her genial, easygoing temperament.

 

“Nice to meet you! I’m Lena.” Freckles, warm hands, and a neon blue glowing contraption strapped to her chest. Lena ate her pie in the time it took Hana to pick up her fork, and she spent the rest of the time chatting with her.

 

“You okay, luv? You doin’ alright?”

 

“Yeah, I’m just new to the place. I got here this morning.”

 

Lena nodded. “You’ll be right at home, I promise you that, love. Don’t be too down!”

 

Ana was seated on Hana’s other side, taking sips out of a martini glass pinched between her fingers. 

 

“Lena, Jack decided to give her the entrance exam after dinner.”

 

“Oh, really? No wonder, then! Jack’s always been a bit hasty bout these kinda things. I’ll have a word with him, aye?”

 

Hana said, no, it was okay.

 

“Alright, love, if you really think you can do it, I’ll be cheering for ya!”

 

When dinner was done, Hana wished she was back in the medical room with the coddling Dr. Ziegler. (Screw this, screw the stress, screw me). She’d probably fail, she was a tiny emaciated teenager who had spent the last few years in captivity, and the years before that? Playing computer games for money. She had no marketable skills nor anything that would be useful to a burgeoning rebellion. Hana briefly considered jumping out the window.

 

Jack Morrison walked into the hall, in his blue jacket (That jacket). His strides were wide and practical, the occupants of the hall turning their heads to him, their eyes magnetized. Tracer waved, and the Commander gave her a pert nod.

 

“Song. Follow me. Amari, Oxton, report to the training room after twenty minutes.” Lana had already finished her dinner, but she stayed at the table.

 

Hana followed him, quietly. She kept her eyes on the bright red seventy six on his back in those stylized block numbers, his broad shoulders straight as a ruler as he marched.

 

“So you’re probably nervous, Hana.” He said.

 

“I guess so.”

 

“You should be. I want you nervous. I’m glad you’re taking this seriously.”

 

He descended a set of stairs way faster than she could, so he slowed down for a moment.

 

“If it looks like I’m being hard on you, I am. It’s really the only option anymore. We’ve got to be hard to survive.”

 

And then they entered the training room. 

 

Stark white and with mirrors, it felt way more like a gigantic gym than anything else; blue mats marked every dozen feet, people in sports outfits going at each other, fists in front of their faces, dashing, striking, falling. Metal panels intersped the floors and walls.

 

And then, Morrison raised his hand. And it all stopped.

 

“File out.” 

 

They did, in thunderous footsteps, mats curling in seconds, ants tearing the nest apart and stuffing it into a closet. In a minute, it was barren, with only her and Jack still standing, ten feet from each other, on the wooden paneling.

 

A table raised itself out of the floor, Jack placing his hands on it and gesturing her to move onto the other side.

 

And then he pulled out a gun, and handed it to her. She hefted it, feeling the familiar knot in her wrist, again. Black, with a hard grip, the weight seemed as pregnant as ever, as lethal, and she rubbed it with her pinkie.

 

“I assume you’ve used one of these before?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

He pointed to a set of targets on the opposite wall, about twenty feet away.

 

“We don’t have a true shooting range anymore, nor do we have headphones. Thankfully, guns aren’t as loud as they were when I enlisted.” He gripped her shoulder, and she breathed in heavily. 

 

“Shoot the targets.”

 

Her arms were out, straight, her stance rigid. She knew how to fire these.

 

Bang.

 

It missed the target by a foot.

 

Neither said anything, and they didn’t need to. Hana felt a slight softness in her wrist from the recoil, but she loosened it, and closed her eyes a second. After opening them again, she fired.

 

She didn’t miss a second time.

 

There was a bullet hole in the dead center of the target, a red light shining where she had shot it. Her hands weren’t shaking anymore. She moved her body on her heel, and fired, again.

 

Another dead bullseye.

 

“Nice shooting.”

She shot five more targets, her accuracy snowballing, her elbow straightening, her hands still, her heart still, breath caught in her lungs, her eyes magnetized to the sights. She didn’t even hear the bangs anymore. There was her finger squeezing the trigger, and then moving to the next. She knew she was good enough to hit it.

 

There was a hand on her shoulder.

“Ok, Song. Your aim  _ clearly _ isn’t a problem. Very impressive. Now, you have one more test before you can join us.”

 

She put the gun down, and turned to him.

 

He took a few steps back, throwing his jacket to the floor. His arms were out, bent, his eyes narrowed, and he adopted a defensive stance.

 

“Show me what you got. Beat an old man up, will you?”

 

Her eyes widened.

  
  
  
  
  



	5. Relics (Never Leave Me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're All Soldiers Now

Dull, dull ache. She was doubled over, clutching her stomach, wheezing. Oh god, that was bad. Her eyes watered, and she was unsteady, unbalanced, seconds from toppling.

“Jack!” She heard the voice yell out, edged with indignant rage.

“Damn.”

She was immediately accosted with a gentle grip, holding her up.

“Hey, you alright, love?”

She opened her mouth, and let out a whimper.

“Jack, you mutt. You really overdo it.” Ana Amari was likely pinching his ear, if his yelps were any indication.

“Hey, you have to be strong to survive! I j-just wanted to see if she had what it takes.”

“You. Will Not. Hurt. Them.” 

“Yes, Amari. Yes.”

Tracer holds her up, and her vision clears, tears sliding down her cheeks slightly. She blinks, hard. Jack had just punched her in the gut as a “training exercise.” She wasn’t sure what to believe.

“Just what was this supposed to prove? You can beat up a scrawny girl with your chemically enhanced body?” Ana barks.

“It wasn’t about getting knocked down. It was about getting up afterwards.”

Ana looks away. Jack takes a seat right on the mat, legs straight out, back slouched.

“You are so full of shit. You’re losing it, Morrison.”

The Commander says nothing, but rubs the bridge of his nose with his knuckles.

“I’m okay.” Hana offers.

“You’re, uh, accepted.” Morrison mentions.

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah. Welcome to Overwatch, Agent Song.” 

“About damn time.” Grumbles Ana. “Come with me, Hana. I’ll show you to your quarters.”

“Thank you, Commander Morrison!” 

She follows Ana out (she gives Jack one more poisonous glare), leaving him on the floor, staring into nothing. Lena sits down, and they begin a soft conversation.

-

She never saw this part of the building before. It’s a cascade down an elevator and a flight of stairs until they arrive at a long hallway that reminds Hana of hotel rooms, with a carpet stretching down into infinity, rows and rows of wooden doors with serial numbers.

A potted plant breaks the pattern, pulling Hana forward and into a narrow alcove where a miniature lounge awaits, vending machine and coffee machine humming gently.

“You’re number forty seven.” Ana smiles at her, pulling out a small card and sliding it through the reader, the door popping open.

Hana steps into the room, which lights up. It’s way bigger than she’d expected, with a comfortable bed and a kitchenette (featuring microwave) and an attached bathroom. No windows, but the lights are bright enough. 

“I live here now?” 

“Yes, this is your home, Hana.” 

She thanks her, as honestly as she can.

“No, thank you. You give me hope.” She gets a pat on the shoulder, and then;

Another hug. (Something about hugs just gets her. Maybe it's the fact that she can feel the breathing, the heartbeat, the life.)

“I will let no harm come to you, Hana. My daughter has grown old for my coddling, but I am still a mother at heart. And I will guard my children with my life.”

“T-thank you, Mrs. Amari.”

She leads the younger woman into the room, gesturing to the device attached to the wall. “Telecom, Holo-vision, and you can page me or Mercy, or the Commander any time you’d like. Call if you need anything, even a listening ear. We’re here for you.”

She’s a bit afraid to ask what happened to the internet. She avoids the question.

Ana looks around. “Also, this place is pretty bare bones. Not much that really makes it... yours, yet. Honey, I understand that you have some hobbies that are really important to you?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, if you want, you can come with me to the Vault.” 

“The Vault?”

“The Vault is where we put the memorabilia of humanity. The things we’re not sure that we need, but we can’t bring ourselves to throw away. We keep everything that we find, toys, games, clothes, items of interest, trinkets.” She moves her long strand of silver out of her eye.

“Everything that’s been abandoned or thrown away. Everyone gets a trip to the Vault when they get here, and they can take anything they want. God knows that we’re the only ones who can make use of it any more.”

Hana’s eyes widen. 

(Games.)

“Can we go now, if that’s ok?”

“Sure thing, Hana. Follow.” 

-

The vault is a seven foot tall steel door with a reader. Ana slides her card through it crisply, and it opens. Hana gasps.

She had possibly expected a large messy pile of pure knick knacks with no rhyme or reason, like a dumpster of human curiosity; but instead, it’s a veritable library. The walls are lined with shelves with many, many things on top of them; the room itself is at least the size of a field, with multiple floors, chapters of lives written in the cracks and the broken glass. 

Hana goes scouring without any prompting, and Ana leaves her to do so, disappearing to parts unknown. (The girl is back.)

It’s a variety that she’s never seen before. On a table, a monopoly set; on a chair, a bust of Quentin Tarantino. There’s more representation of human history than in any social studies encyclopedia. She touches things that are cached in dust but her hands do not pull back, instead, she feels the soft hands of the child that used to love the doll, the cup, the jar, decades and decades ago.

At last, she sees it. It’s old, the edges have whitened from chipped paint, but it is still whole. And then she spies another monument to her past, in its original box. Her eyes jump from place to place. It’s an Oasis. There’s so many here. She could cry.

Green screen with no cracks, heavily yellowed yet still intact casing; the buttons were depressed and the letters had worn away, the cartridge was chewed; but there it was. The paint on the front with the logo was chipped off, but she still knew. 

The Nintendo Gameboy goes in her pocket, and the Playstation Two, boxed, is slid over into the center of the corridor for later perusal. She scans the other dozen video game systems there, rusted or cracked but still lovely little tokens of joy and happiness and all that’s good in the world. (Her heart melts.) 

She’s never been a historian but this is her history, her legacy. She grew up with the swan song of Nintendo, the death throes of Microsoft, the days where it seemed like the industry, and the medium, was a niche that was kept alive only by celebrities like her. She lived this history, and this is where it began.

She opens the disc tray of a Wii U, finding a pristine copy of Super Mario Galaxy 2 inside. She collects both, dropping them into a shopping cart. Is she overextending? Is Ana really going to let her take all these?

She plops all the systems she sees into the cart, guilt riding on her back, but elation crushing, crushing it down. Her hands love the plastic coating around the Sega Saturn. She finds a box with dozens, dozens of cartridges of everything from GameBoy games to Neo Geo. She finds a binder full of CDs mixed with games. So many of them are classics, things she’s heard of but never played; Final Fantasy, Jorvaskr, Skyrim, Oloris, Return of Klein.

She lies down in the afterglow, her mouth frozen in a silent smile. She collects a few pillows and plushes, a cozy blanket, and a couple of sweaters. D.va was never one to forgo clothes because of her entertainment obsession, as much as her fans would have liked that.

(And it really is D.va that carts that mountain back to a chuckling Ana.)

-

It’s later that she’s lying in the bed, alone. Completely alone. The night is silent, and the walls are thick enough that she doesn’t overhear forty eight or forty six.

She wants to scream and see if anyone notices. Just to let it out.

She’s ditched her clothes on the floor of the bathroom. The bed is far too comfortable, and she fidgets, her brown eyes peeling the ceiling apart. She hasn’t touched the games yet, even though she wants to. Some part of her doesn’t want to enjoy anything.

Some part of her wants to go out and kill some robots. Some monsters. Some murderers. Mother, Father, Jung, Suk, Kyung. Some part doesn’t feel like they’d want her to lie in a room and play games while they rot in a mass grave.

She’s done her crying.

It’s late, she thinks. Time hasn’t mattered to her in a while, but it might, soon. Ana hasn’t told her what happens in the morning, just that she’s free for the rest of the night. She turns over, on the bed, and picks up the notes she had started that morning.

(It’s late.)

She falls asleep without writing another thing.

\--


	6. First Mission (Bunny Slope)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First Mission-

  
  


It’s late afternoon weeks later when Hana scarfs down her breakfast, muscles tensed, knot in her stomach. Her hands fidget around the orange juice, earning a concerned stare from Mei, who butters her own toast across the table.

 

“It’ll be okay, Hana.”

 

“Hm? Yeah, thanks, Mei.”

 

Mei bites her lip, but continues to eat, while Hana swipes her plate and runs out, dropping it into the sink as a quick detour before hopping out the door.

 

A multitude of staircases lie ahead, so she descends them all, her recuperated, lithe, frame hopping down quickly, pushing past the occasional straggler. 

 

She stops in front of the massive steel door. She knocks, and breathes in, standing still.

 

A few moments pass, and she knocks, louder. The door shutters open with a loud thud that shakes her skeleton, but she filters into the darkened room, blinking as her eyes adjust to the lower light.

 

The short swedish engineering genius is perched on a desk, fiddling with a tiny metal contraption, his claw being abandoned on the floor next to him in exchange for a more dexterous orange prosthetic. 

 

She looks behind him, and she sees it. She’s lost for a moment.

 

“Baby?”

 

“In the flesh.” Torbjorn Lindholm chuckles.

 

He hops off the table, but she’s taken in, already walked forward and into the ring.

The once pink mech is now painted a deep blue, white striped, but it’s still the same mecha, scratches and all. The fact that Torbjorn would defile her Baby with blue (really?) paint offends her slightly, but she brushes it off, and hugs the goddess anyways.

 

“I didn’t… I didn’t think she had survived. But why just before the mission-”

 

“We had to keep this under wraps, I hope you understand.” 

 

The glass is still as hard to smudge as always, Hana’s palms rubbing against the coolness experimentally. She flips the cockpit up, hopping into it, her belly flat on the polyester, and the hatch flips back down. Her bare hands wrap around the handles, thumbs resting on plastic buttons. 

 

It’s off, she understands, but it feels alive.  _ She _ feels alive.

 

(Baby, I won’t leave you. Baby, we lost, but you’re still with me when everyone else is gone, when I’m alone. Baby, don’t leave me…)

 

(It’s just a machine)

 

Torbjorn makes his way over to a hologram panel, which he taps a slider.

 

Baby springs to life under her, and she gasps, the heat pulling up, the light vibration greeting her. Sans plugsuit, it’s far more naked, personal. Bright lights dance in front of her vision.

 

“We found it while we were extracting information. I had to piece it together after what the boltheads had done to it, but I got it workin’ for ya.”

 

“Thank you, sir!”

 

“Don’t thank me, girlie. Thank god above that it wasn’t smelted down into scrap. It looks like you’re pretty attached to that ol’ thing, eh?”

 

“We’ve been through a lot together, sir.”

 

“Well, you’re gonna need to reintroduce yourself quickly, lass, because we ain’t got a lot of time before deployment.”

 

She nods, and thumbs the controls. The pit in her stomach is quelled, for now. 

 

o0o0

 

“Alright, Agents.” The synthetic blue glow shadows his cheeks and eyes, leaving the Commander’s face eerily like a phantasm in the dark debriefing room, with only the projector offering any light. Hana fidgets in her seat, one of the seven occupying the rectangular table. 

 

The commander was the only one standing, and he had switched into his short jacket and combat gear, the red line visor on the table. The table held him steady.

 

“Last week, our intelligence informed us that they had finally located an omnium that we now know is class Zeta.”

 

“For those of you who missed the class briefing, Zeta is the only class that an elite team would likely be able to assault without any casualties or major manpower expenditure.”

 

“The omnium is located in southern Congo, in a valley which we can likely approach by air and deploy directly one or two miles away. Our goal is to infiltrate and disable the omnium, and then extract any information before destroying the facility. Our information tells us that we are able to cut off communications from the central God AI for up to two weeks, leading to liberation of the Congo for up to a month.”

 

“Now, for the sortie, we have a new agent in the fold. Hana Song will be joining us on her first official mission, and she will be accompanied by several senior staff.”

 

He pulls up a list with his red gloved hand.

 

“Agent Pharah, Agent Mercy, Agent Reinhardt, and I.”

 

Hana put her chin in her palms. 

 

“We will depart at one six hundred hours. Good luck out there, agents.”

 

-

 

Her plugsuit was a bit looser than her old one, but warmer; the white and blue of her old were retained, but the purple and green were discarded, a simple overwatch logo on her collarbone. Her hair’s tied up in a bun.

 

She’s fiddling with the dials on Baby, making sure that the mech’s new adjustments didn’t put any additional strain on it. Her anxiety had returned full force, pushing into her chest like a giant sharp tooth. 

 

“We’ve got your back, Song.” Pharah’s now in her Raptora, and looks every bit the bird of prey, light glinting off bright blue and gold. Her helmet’s clutched under her arm.

 

“Thank you.”

 

She gets a salute, and Pharah leaves.

 

“Hana, you need to get to the plane now.” Mercy’s voice echoes over the voice communications.

 

She sighs, patting Baby once more, before she makes her way to the walkway. 

 

Mercy’s in her Valkyrie, legs crossed, seated, serene. She taps the seat next to her. Hana lowers herself into the cushion, and Angela takes her hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. 

 

“They’re loading your mech into the transport right now. I’ll be right by your side the whole time.”

 

Hana gives her an uncertain smile. 

 

Commander 76 climbs up the walkway, the massive german behind him, sans armor but in a solid black segmented bodysuit. The visor’s on Morrison, and his brow is creased, mask revealing nothing.

 

The door closes, and the Commander checks his watch. 

 

“Buckle in, loves!” Tracer’s voice darts from the intercom, and the engine thrums to life. Hana looks through the window, at the breeze rustling the blades of grass. The plane picks up speed.

Hana bites her lip.

 

-

 

She’s nudged awake by a hand on her shoulder, and she gasps as the world comes rushing back to her. She nearly falls out of her seat, but is steadied by the gloved grip.

 

It’s dark, and the cabin is bathed by orange. Reinhardt is climbing down the ramp onto the sandy expanse in the dark blue, to the other supply plane, which was lit by landing lights, the door having slid open, releasing a slate of bright white into the sandy patches of grass below. The gigantic man disappears into the cabin, and Hana is pulled behind him by Pharah.

 

The inside of the storage has multiple pods, and Hana places her hand on one of them, and it clicks, large steel doors prying open and letting her in. In seconds, she’s suited up, shining blue machine shell containing her, arms on joysticks. She descends the ramp.

 

(Initializing.)

 

It’s back. That feeling of her heart slowing down, blood rushing through her ears, engines engaging all around her, holographic display flashing her blinking eyes. She switches the HUD to blue, and turns the mecha, facing the commander’s red visor, which was looking up at her appraisingly.

 

Ever since the incident where he struck her, the old soldier had gone all soft and mushy, walking on eggshells with her, never giving more than a harsh word even when she broke protocol; (yet another person afraid of breaking her). He had never apologized directly, and she suspected that his ego would not let him, but she felt the weight of his regret with his tired eyes.

 

She gave him a salute with the cannon on the mecha’s appendage, the steel clinking against the pod. She could practically see the grin under his visor, but he turned, taking a stand on one of the rocks in the enclosure.

 

Reinhardt Wilhelm’s gigantic clanging footsteps shook Hana, making her turn her head to look at the steel clad warrior, whose stance was truly fearsome as he hefted the massive hammer over his shoulder, fire burning, blue helmet with the fiery T. She stifled her gasp.

 

“Commander.” His voice echoed through his helmet.

 

The commander nodded. 

 

Pharah perched herself on an outcropping, dropping to her knees, calibrating her rocket launcher, wings splayed out, Mercy beside her. There was a dull glow around Angela, even with her wings off, and she tapped her staff on the stone. The trees swayed lightly around them, and the stars glinted at the gathered group solemnly.

 

Soldier: 76 tapped his earpiece.

 

“ _ Mission is a go.” _

 

_ - _

 

The jungle is thick, but the transport slices through it with ease and laser cutters, rocky outcroppings slightly swaying the floating ride but not enough to cause those inside it to shift.

 

When it stops, the group thunder out of it, jumping into action, storming into the bramble until they see it; a huge black expanse of steel wall, behemoth. The moon’s glow is on the other side of the omnium, and they are shrouded in a black shadow, the only light being that of each member’s power source. Pharah’s jet flares to life, a sizzling blast, as she soars above, kicking the wall to maintain steady acceleration, and disappearing into the canopy.

 

“Song, wait for Reinhardt’s barrier before engaging any targets.”

 

“Aye aye, sir.”

 

Reinhardt strides forward, into the wall, where he lays his gauntlet on the wall.

 

“Commander?”

 

“Break it.”

 

Reinhardt practically grins over the voice communications.

 

Taking a step back, the crusader holds his hammer in both hands like a baseball bat, the flares on the back of his armor heating up, jetting bits of scalding rocket fuel backwards. He adopts a stance with both knees bent. 

 

Bellowing, the jet on his back bursts, sending him forward, metal clanging and sending sparks everywhere as he brings his rocket hammer in a swift arc and-

 

The thud could have shattered the heavens, but it sends a spiderweb of cracks straight up the massive wall, red hot, and he slams his hammer yet again with a war cry, shattering the building cleanly, sending debris every way, Mercy and the Commander safely away from being crushed by a large piece of debris.

 

“The Job is done!”

 

“Alright, file in, troops.”

 

The mecha follows the Crusader, who brings up his other arm, and a bright glowing barrier illuminates the room in neon blue. There’s dozens of steel machines trickling in and-

 

(Them.)

 

Her hands slip off the controls and she breathes. In, out. Her head hurts.

 

She dimly registers the pulse rifle sending helix rockets into the clustered omnics, sending flaming bits of metal flying everywhere, before he activates the primary fire, shooting holes in the wiring and chest of the glowing robots, before their glowing ceases.

 

“Song.”

 

She awakens.

 

Her thumbs are on the controls, and she clicks them down.

 

The cannons spring to life, drizzling the omnic forces with a wide spray of lasers cleaving the walls and leaving hollow bots that drop to the floor. She keeps the button held, seeing metal caps burst open, electric sparks fly in every direction, a wonderful cacophony of gunfire as the two guns open fire onto the robots, tearing them apart like a firing squad.

 

She screams, her eyes widened, and laughs, switching the intercom off and letting herself be engrossed in the act of slaughtering those… those…

 

No more flood in. It seems like the initial reaction had been complete.

 

“Intel tells us there’s some bastion sentries, but those are dumb and easily dispatched. I believe Pharah’s dealing with those now.”

 

Reinhardt lets his barrier recharge, and he leads the way into the next room, which is a truly vast canopy, endless worker drones chattering around them. Hana’s skin prickled with goosebumps, but she stills her hands from opening fire. They don’t seem like hostile drones.

 

(But who knows.)

 

True to form, a few more, larger, drones burst in and try to open fire but Soldier is faster, sending a rocket into one, and emptying half his clip into the other. Hana stills and fires into the last, shredding it like cheddar.

 

They comb the area, passing from factory room to another, burning through robots without a scratch. Reinhardt smashes another door down, and, when greeted by nothing, he enters, passing his shield up regardless, and letting the Commander sweep through the room. 

 

In the center, a large, circular terminal is connected to the ceiling by a mass of thick, snakelike wires, bleeding information through blue channels into the machine. Soldier pulls out an instrument, what appears to be a stick of some sort with a metal tip, and smashes it into the metal analog, using his strength to embed it deep into the blue until it lights up.

 

“Torbjorn-”

 

“Aye, Commander, give me a second.”

 

Mercy backs up, keeping behind a wall, her staff out.

 

“I think they’re coming.” She says. “Robots don’t need a physical alarm, but I hear a lot of them coming here now. Some are louder than others.”

 

It’s a few moments before Hana can hear it too. She adopts a protective stance, circling her guns and pointing them straight at the doors.

 

Soldier 76 hefts his gun again, pointing at Reinhardt to stand guard over the machinery, with Torb humming in the communications.

 

And then another crowd bursts in, and this time, Hana has to step back. A tank-

 

The first tank shell smashes into the wall, sending bricks and debris everywhere, but the second hits the materialized shield, where it releases a small fireball, superheating the area around it. There’s a tank drone, a bastion, barreling in, followed by another entourage of basic drones, carrying larger guns.

 

“Looks like we got to the important part.” Mercy shifts herself behind Baby, her staff finally connecting to Reinhardt, a bright glowing beam linking them. Reinhardt knows what this means, and he lets out a throaty laugh, swirling his hammer, sending a huge pillar of fire down the corridor, into the bastion, cleaving it neatly in half.

 

The shield flares up again, and Hana cleans up the other omnics rapidly, until there’s just a mountain of metal scraps on the floor. 

 

Torbjorn curses in swedish, and there’s a clattering of metal.

 

“Wha-” Soldier taps his ear.

 

“Commander, you just stumbled on the motherlode. Do ya..” He seemed to think for a while as the group offer baffled vocalizations.

 

“This is what we need. Get out of there.” He finishes, before pulling off the comms.

 

The Commander looks a bit disgruntled, but nods, and points with two fingers.

 

“Pharah, do you read?”

 

“Loud and clear. I’m north of your position. Five bastion units dispatched.”

 

Reinhardt lets out a whistle. “That’s my girl.” 

 

They rush out of the room, with Hana deleting the occasional straggler drone, and they arrive in the courtyard, the night’s blue still bright above them. The stone is accompanied by soot marks and pieces of torn apart bastions, an extensive battle having taken place there just moments before. Pharah lands, wings splayed, her blue outfit slightly dented by bullets but the woman herself looking none the worse for wear.

 

“Alright, we have extracted the information. Now, we destroy the facility’s working stations and open it up for further inspection.”

 

He points to Hana.

“Song, you are dismissed to return to the pod. Your performance today was excellent. Mercy will accompany you.”

 

Hana’s eyes widened. Wasn’t Mercy needed on the field? Nevertheless, she thanked the commander. 

 

“Fly over the wall using your boosters. Mercy can fly with you. Good luck.”

 

And then he nodded, and clustered closer to the other two, continuing the operation.

 

Hana hummed, feeling her adrenaline simmer, and then she pulls her lever, sending the jets on Baby into overdrive and sending her into the air, over the massive wall. She drops down, in free fall, the one ton vehicle falling a dozen meters and slamming into the dirt, making a tiny crater. Hana’s cushioning minimized the impact on her body, and she continued walking in the mech without issue.

 

The forest was so serene now, and she admired it for a second, as the angelic woman slowly drifted down behind her, bright yellow wings branched out. Hana took it all in, and Mercy gently landed on her feet, wings returning to normal position.

 

“That went well.”

 

“You did great. I know it must have been hard to see those… omnics again.”

 

“Yeah, but.” She thought for a second, taking steps into the grassy glade, the trees whistling with the wind. “I had a duty. I have a family now.”

 

Mercy’s smile was radiant.

 

They walked, hearing faint explosions in the distance, but Hana’s nerves had calmed considerably.

 

The transport was in sight now, and Hana looked behind her, seeing Mercy.

“Wait, I thin-”

 

-Bang-

 

And then, gunfire. There’s a horrific scream as bullets, fiery lines trace around Angela, and several of them tear through her body, making holes in her hip, and shoulder. Blood splatters, too quick to see, against the grass.

 

Hana’s eyes widen for half a second but then she jumps in front of them, hands sweating but grip hard on the controls, her back to the threat. She’s looking down at the fallen doctor, whose eyes are shut and her face in agony, hand pushing into the wound on her stomach, blood leaking past her black gloves.

 

Deafening hail of bullets slash the ground and grass around them, unceasing, and the seconds Hana had left were whittling-

 

Hana feels the armor on Baby’s back give, but she can’t move, bullets whizzing into her. In seconds, it would penetrate the final layer and she’d find her back full of bullets.

 

She had to think, and fast.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
